Sherlock glanced up from his microscope as a series of banging and crashing noises filled 221B Baker Street, colourfully accompanied by the sounds of John cursing at some inanimate object. Accustomed to this sort of occurrence, Sherlock sighed and went back to his experiment, waiting for his flatmate to make an appearance.
Sure enough, a few seconds later a very bedraggled John emerged through the door. His face had gone an unflattering shade of beetroot and his clothes were more disorderly than Sherlock had ever had the displeasure of seeing them. And that was saying something.
'Good God, John. Please tell me you haven't gone and invaded Afghanistan again.',
John rolled his eyes. 'Sherlock. If you must know, I've treated a patient with malaria and delivered seven babies. Seven!'
Sherlock sniffed in a superior fashion. 'Didn't know you were an obstetrician.'
Seconds later, as Sherlock tried to remove the blanket that John had thrown at his head, John collapsed onto the chair across from his flatmate. 'Christ, I'm starving.'
'Feel free to go fix yourself something. Mrs Hudson's gone to visit her sister.'
'Bloody hell! And of all the days to do it...'
John trudged forlornly off into the kitchen, but Sherlock heard his weary footsteps stop short after just a few seconds. Definitely not long enough for him to have reached the kitchen.
'SHERLOCK!'
Minutes later John and Sherlock were crouched on the floor picking up pieces of shattered glass and china.
'I can't help it if the hydrocarbons reacted a little more violently than I was expecting!'
'Oh, shut up! You can't even call yourself an adult if you botch an experiment this simple! You completely messed up the kitchen and you couldn't even be bothered to clean up! God, I can see why Mrs Hudson needed this trip away.'
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond to this scathing criticism, but was silenced by a glare. If looks could kill Afghan insurgents...
'Well, I was going to apologise, but if you feel that way...' he huffed.
Unable to resist the consulting four-year-old, John softened a little.
'Well,' he said, with just a touch of vindication in his voice, 'if you're actually sorry, there is SOMETHING you can help me with...'
'"Healthy chicken and chorizo pie"? How healthy can chorizo be?'
John glowered at Sherlock. 'Shut up. The 'boring teacher' gave me this recipe and I'd prefer if you just stopped talking and started cooking.'
Sherlock peered at the recipe book on the counter.
'Right. I know exactly how to do this.'
'You can cook?' asked John, surprised.
'Who said I needed to be able to cook?'
Dark had fallen on Baker Street. The street lights had gone on and their yellow light streamed through the window as a bus growled past the house. Dimly illuminated on the table were a vast assortment of beakers, boiling tubes, flasks, Bunsen burners and jars of strongly smelling chemicals.
'Sherlock...' came John's voice, 'are you SURE this is a good idea? I mean, do you know what you're doing?...'
'SCIENCE, John! It's the key to everything! If I can use it to react hydrocarbons I can use it to make a pie.'
'Sherlock, your attempt to react hydrocarbons resulted in the destruction of the gas cooker and every piece of crockery within a three-metre radius.'
Sherlock waved his blowtorch in John's face.
'That was science. This is...sophisticated application of common sense and basic chemistry. Pass me the iron filings.'
Reluctantly, John handed over a glass jar full of small fragments of metal.
'Thank you. I've connected the Bunsen burner to the gas outlet so that should be fine. If you could possibly put the casserole dish over the flame? Very good. Now, where's the chicken gone...'
John watched Sherlock pottering around the kitchen looking very much like a young, male, ridiculously high-cheekboned version of Betty Crocker. If Betty Crocker wore safety goggles and a lab coat. And used a blowtorch.
'John! Butane! Now please!'
John sighed, pulled down his goggles and gingerly passed Sherlock a canister of gas.
'Right. Now, I'm going to pour these iron filings onto the flame, and when I do I want you to try and tilt the Bunsen burner towards the beaker of petroleum.'
John took a deep breath and nodded.
Slowly, Sherlock tipped the contents of the jar of filings into the flame of the Bunsen burner. John prayed that his gloves would be strong enough to deflect the glowing red specks falling towards his hands, and carefully directed the shower of burning iron towards the petroleum, prompting it to burst into flames.
'Excellent. Water?'
John reached for the beaker labelled H2O as Sherlock picked up the sodium thiosulphate.
'Sherlock... Please could you possibly explain why on earth we're using sodium thiosulphate and hydrogen peroxide to make a pie? Especially considering that we could just use your blowtorch to heat the bloody chicken if you're so desperate to overcomplicate!'
Sherlock gave John a pitying look.
'The last time I was as bored as I am now I shot a congressman with a paintball gun. I thought you'd approve of this a little more, but if not I can easily go-'
'All right, all right! I don't want to have to go get you out of a cell again. You remember that time at Pentonville Prison? One of the inmates tried to strangle me as I walked past!'
Sherlock didn't look up from pouring the sodium thiosulphate into the beaker of water, and the kitchen was silent apart from the steady drip of liquid. John thought it was too good of a situation to last long. He was right.
"SHERLOCK!'
'John, this is absolutely ridiculous! It was your fault entirely! I can't help it if you couldn't be bothered to read the label on the beaker!'
'If you hadn't INSISTED on doing this is such a bloody stupid, complicated way this never would have happened!'
'I TOLD you you have to read the label carefully!'
'From where I was it looked like H2O! I couldn't tell it was H2S04!'
Sitting on the counter next to the Bunsen burner and the empty basin of petroleum was a miserable-looking container of yellowish liquid, rather resembling rotten milk. It smelled accordingly. The entirety of 221B reeked of sulphur- the result of John's confusion of a beaker of water with a beaker of sulphuric acid.
'Anyway, you're being completely unreasonable! It's just a small accident. Be glad I didn't break the dishwasher. This time.'
'A small- a SMALL accident? My room smells like a box of rotten eggs! I can hear people shouting about it on the street!'
'Well, MY room smells fine, so I assume that your personal hygiene may be contributing to the unpleasant odour in your part of the flat!'
John sulked at him for a minute.
'Sherlock, I don't know about you but this shambles has has not improved the condition of my stomach. It's still empty.'
'Oh God.'
'Seriously! We're going to try this again and this time we're doing it MY way! The sensible way!'
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
'God, you're so boring. All right...'
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Sooooooooooooooooo, my first fic... did it suck? please r and r!
IF ANYONE READS THIS WHO ISN'T EMIBEE OR AWKWARDBANANA AND REVIEWS IT I WILL POST THE NEXT CHAPTER
